When the only course of action is revenge, only the most damaged man is capable of maximum destruction.
Blurb
Hired by a Chicago billionaire to pluck his runaway son from the Palm Springs compound of a wealthy pedophile, former military extraction and information specialist, Cordon Finn, believes it will be a simple snatch and go job with a big payday. But after grabbing the kid at a Pride Week party, Cordon discovers that nothing is as it seems. His quarry isn’t underage, and isn’t the billionaire’s son, but rather his trans-daughter who goes by the name of Lucious. And her father wants Lucious dead, putting Cordon, who is dealing with his own sexual identity, in the crosshairs as well. After fighting off a cadre of assassins, Cordon vows to keep Lucious alive. But when the billionaire kidnaps Cordon’s girlfriend and comes after his family and friends, Cordon takes the fight back to the billionaire’s door. With the surprising help of Lucious, as well as his sister, Annie, Cordon battles the billionaire’s small army, until he’s face-to-face with the billionaire. And in this battle, there will be only one man left standing, the one who is capable of maximum destruction.
Excerpt
Arriving at his car, Cordon puts down the top and tosses his bag in before opening the door to climb in, when he hears, “We’re even,” from behind him.
Turning, he finds the young guy, smiling cheekily, standing behind him.
“Even?” Cordon asks, unsure.
“You enjoyed the show I put on for you inside, I enjoyed the show you put on for me as you sashayed across the parking lot,” the kid says.
“I don’t sashay. And I didn’t take off my shirt for you.”
The kid giggles, rolling his eyes dramatically as he says, “Liar. That’s the only reason you took off your shirt. Hoping I’d notice and come running up to you.”
“And here you are.”
The kid’s face squishes up like he’s eaten rotten lemons.
“I’m a sucker for a muscle daddy. And you certainly got size. Hopefully, in the places I can’t see.”
“How old are you?” Cordon asks, ignoring the kid’s comment.
“Twenty-two.”
“Now who’s the liar?”
The kid smirks mischievously, hand on hip. “Nineteen. Five-ten. Twenty-eight-inch waist. My name is Gio. Want to know my cock size?”
Cordon doesn’t answer, which causes Gio to grin mischievously.
“Come on, I saw you looking at it. Though I imagine being a giant, yours is bigger. But for my frame, mine is super-sized,” he laughs.
“This bullshit work?”
“Work how?”
“On other guys. Talking about your dick like it’s a 78-inch flat screen.”
“Just the ones who I think are interested,” Gio laughs, then suddenly gets more direct as he adds, “or have the money to pay.”
Cordon nods, understanding more clearly Gio’s game. “Which one do you think I am?” Cordon asks.
“You’re driving a really nice car, so you got the money. But I don’t think you have to pay men to have sex with you, unless you do it for the control, or you’re married, which I wouldn’t doubt, and you hope money will keep your trick’s mouth shut. Either way, I know you’re interested. I always know.”
“You party up at Lansing’s?” Cordon asks, tiring of the conversation.
Again, Gio’s smile fades, his head turning slightly as if looking at the Cordon from a different angle might jog his memory. “Did we meet up there?” Gio asks more of himself than Cordon. “No. I’d remember. Lansing would never invite a guy like you. All his little boys would flit around you like butterflies to bougainvillea, and he doesn’t allow anyone to steal his thunder. You a cop?”
“No.”
“You know if I ask, you have to tell me,” Gio inserts.
“That’s bullshit. But I’m not.”
Gio takes Cordon in silently for a moment. And even though he knows he shouldn’t say too much to the statuesque man he doesn’t know, Gio is not adept at shutting up, even when it’s in his best interest.
“Sure, I party up at Lansing’s. Never lived there, though. Those guys think Lansing’s the answer to their prayers. Please. He has a revolving bedroom door with guys going in all young, dewy-eyed, and hopeful, and coming out all used up and sad. The man’s an emotional vampire. Sucks the life out of everybody. They all think that he’s going to help make them a star, or they’ll meet some other old queen through Lansing that will. And they all end up going back home, broke, hungry, and completely jaded, or they end up selling it to pay the rent. Hell, even when you’re up there, all that’s there are other fairies just like them or some dried-up, old, coke addict trying to get his Viagra dick up your ass. Don’t know anybody Lansing’s actually helped. Ever.”
“You don’t hold back, do you?”
“Just so I know who just insulted me, what’s your name?”
“Cordon.”
“Cordon from where?”
“Chicago.”
“You’re a long way from home, aren’t you, Dorothy? Are you here for Pride Week? I mean, I don’t get that vibe from you, that you’re down here to party with the boys. But you could be one of those sad, married men who told your wife back in Chicago that you’re going on a golfing trip or a hunting trip or something equally lame. And you’re here because you really like dick but you’re Catholic or worse, Evangelical, like my parents, and your guilt is off the charts because you married some pretty blonde, church-going girl, you have two kids, but all you think about when you’re fucking her is guys like me.”
“If you’re paying and I get to pick the restaurant,” Gio quickly tacks on.
Cordon lets a half-smile slip on his lip at Gio’s young, alpha nonsense.
“Get in,” Cordon says.
About the Author
Mr. Baker has written seven novels, including WHAT REMAINS, THE VIRGIN DAIQUIRI, and THE WEDDING GIFT. The film rights to his beloved novel, HONEYMOON WITH HARRY, were purchased by New Line Cinema. The book also spawned two sequels, A SECOND HONEYMOON WITH HARRY and THE LAST HONEYMOON WITH HARRY. Bart has also written for the theater, having eight plays produced around the world. The film rights to his play, RELAY, were purchased by Warner Bros., which led him into screenwriting. Bart has had 18 produced film and TV credits, including the feature film, LIVE WIRE, starring Pierce Brosnan, the BRIDE trilogy of films for CBS, as well as projects for CBS, ABC, FX, The Family Channel, Lifetime, The USA Network, and Hallmark among others.
Separate Development is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Many names, places and timelines have been altered to provide anonymity to third parties. Character names do not reflect anyone, living or deceased, whom I have ever known. However, I would like to thank the real-life members of the family portrayed in this book for being part of my life, and for their understanding and acceptance. I recognise that their memories of the events described in the novel may be different from my own. There was never any intention to misrepresent anyone; in fact, I am honoured to have known them.
Blurb
At twenty-five, recently qualified Dr Jonathan Conner leaves his comfortable life and love in London, taking up a charitable post during the last months of South Africa’s apartheid system. Weeks from a planned visit by his long-standing girlfriend, he falls in love with a young African man in the northern homeland of Venda.
Their passionate, heart-rending love story unfolds against the backdrop of conflict between social tolerances that lag behind political freedoms. Returning to England after eight years, he’s forced to confront the consequences of his decisions for those left behind in two very different worlds.
Through this story of love’s endurance beyond society’s acceptance and geographical separation, can the enduring power of the human heart overcome adversity?
Excerpt
The stark beauty of Venda’s voluptuous landscape could have replaced many an artist’s requirement for naked models of either sex. Rounded hills, writhing between cleaved valleys, yearned for lustful hands to caress their contours in pleasurable embraces. Admittedly, on that solemn day, it was not a mental image to dwell on. But I was to make the journey more than once.
The last twenty miles were dirt, dust dry, following the undulating curvature of parched hillsides. Rain was a distant memory, the last breath of summer’s bounty, yet portions of verdant green interspersed the struggling rampant growth of a forgotten season. Soon the skies would fill again with heat born clouds, storage towers of sustenance, destined to release daily torrents. Today, the brightest greens picked out pockets of humanity, cultivated patches and plots, tall stands of maize, fringed with bananas and peppered with papayas. Water was available for those who worked hard enough to find it, and the rich African soil rewarded those who took the trouble. These oases were increasing in frequency, many still surrounded by round, thatched, mud-wall huts or rondavels, some supplemented by larger rectangular versions, roofs still often traditional but occasionally replaced by bright or rusty zinc. Tracks worn by years of footfall fed the settlements. Vehicular access was rare, but where it existed, the residences built of brick, though often rendered: similar modern bungalows to mine.
As the frequency of dwellings increased, so did the appearance of structures clearly having other functions. Eventually we reached a broad flat plane. Gone were the patches of green, and in their place, the straggling thorn bushes — which conquered any area where humanity didn’t — had grown to tall spreading trees; all were bare of leaf, yet in the seasons of rain, broad panoplies of shade would provide protection from Capricorn’s sun. The space, ringed with buildings of a relatively modern construction, had occasional notices of printed or hand painted letters attached. Enclosing one side of the quadrangle stood a long dormitory style block of rough plastered walls, patched and peeling paint representing the faded choices of many years, or perhaps revealing the use of colours kindly donated at the time. Windows, placed only a few inches below the rusty corrugated overhang of the roof, in some sections without frame or glass, allowed light yet probably deterred its occupants from external distraction. Three well-worn steps led to broad double doors, also reflecting the indecision or availability of bygone supplies of colour. Only the signage appeared to have received regular maintenance. Bold black lettering, written with skilled hands on a fresh blue base, told me Sarah’s directions had led me to park in front of Ha-nthabalala Secondary School, Established 1972. Headmaster: Mr Joseph Ramanala. The name had a slightly deeper blue background, suggesting it represented the most recent promotion to the post.
About the Author
David Blyth was born in Staffordshire, in the UK. He graduated from Nottingham and Wolverhampton Universities with a BSC.hon and a PGCE. He lived for many years in South Africa, where he witnessed the political and social transformation during and after apartheid.
His interests, apart from writing, include anything that helps him to stay relatively sane.
Separate Development, which is in fact, his second novel, was written at his home in the English Midlands. It is due to be published in the spring of 2023.
His first novel, The Scars of Life, was written during a two-year overland exploration of southern, central and east Africa. Much was achieved sitting under the shade of a huge mango tree on the shores of Lake Malawi, always with a beer near at hand. It will be published during the summer of 2023.
Blurb Pitch and Sickle have survived enraged fae queens,
murderous forest guardians, walking corpses, and ghosts turned monstrous by the
Blight. They been tortured by sorcerers and made
playthings by enemies who have sided with the Morrigan. The ankou and his daemon prince have been forced
to confront awful secrets from their pasts. Both have made terrible sacrifices to keep the
other safe. And would willingly do much more to protect the
unimaginable bond that has grown between them. In the midst of the chaos and carnage a deadman
and a daemon have found each other. Now, Prince Vassago will need his Pale Horseman
more than ever before. With the escape from the Fulbourn comes the truth
about what lies ahead. The journey will be perilous. The great hunt has begun. And all is not as it should be for a beleagered
daemon. Can Silas and the Order outwit the Morrigan, and deliver Pitch to where
Seraphiel’s secrets lie? Or will the sorcerers’ Herlequin succeed where all the rest have failed?
CHECK OUT THE OTHER BOOKS IN THE
SERIES
BOOK 1
Book Title: The
Bandalore – Pitch & Sickle Book One
Cover Artist: Deranged Doctor
Designs
Release Date: February 25,
2021
Heat Rating: 2 flames
Length: 285
pages
Genre: Historical Fantasy MM
Tropes: Slow, slow burn, opposites attract
Themes: Loneliness and friendship
It is not a standalone book.
This is the first book in the Gaslamp Fantasy series, The Diabolus
Chronicles.
It has an unresolved
storyline rather than an outright cliffhanger.
Life as a servant of
death has its challenges.But the biggest one of all
is Silas’s daemonic guardian, Pitch.
Blurb
Silas Mercer is a dead man walking.
And the mysterious Order of the Golden Dawn have big
plans for their newest ankou and his deathly bandalore.
Life as a servant of death has its challenges.
But the biggest one of all is Silas’s daemonic guardian,
Pitch.
He may look like heaven, but he’s making Silas’s life all kinds
of hell.
The daemon is arrogant, egotistical and his appetite for
violence and tea cakes is fast outgrowing the small village where they have been
recuperating since their run-in with Black Annis.
Now, the increasingly unstable Blight is causing new havoc,
and fresh monstrosities are emerging.
Pitch and Sickle are back in the saddle, and on their way to
the haunted Forest of Dean.
But can Silas rely on his guardian’s protection?
Or will Pitch prove to be the most dangerous encounter of
all?
BOOK 3
Book Title: The Skriker –
Pitch & Sickle Book Three
Length: 369
pages
Release Date: October 20,
2021
Genres: MM Fantasy, Gaslamp Fantasy, Historical Fantasy
Silas Mercer has faced
wily boggarts, mad faerie queens and enraged forest spirits. But can he withstand a daemon
who is losing his mind?
Blurb
Silas Mercer has faced wily boggarts, mad faerie queens
and enraged forest spirits.
But can he withstand a daemon who is losing his
mind?
Pitch and Sickle are left bruised, battered and reeling after
their confrontation with the Verderer.
They have learned a startling truth behind the arrowhead
that wounded Silas, a truth that must be taken to the Lady Satine and the Order without
delay.
But his encounters in the Forest of Dean have effected Pitch
in alarming ways. The daemon’s body may have healed but his erratic behaviour and wildly
unpredictable temper grow ever more concerning.
Silas owes his life to Pitch. Their experience in the forest
has brought them a closeness he could not have imagined possible.
But what can he do for a daemon who is losing his
way?
And how long will Silas survive, if he must ride
alone?
BOOK 4
Book Title: The
Greensward – Pitch & Sickle Book Four
Length: 412
pages
Release Date: April 13,
2022
Genres: MM Fantasy, Gaslamp Fantasy, Historical Fantasy
The Lady’s Horsemen
are riding out once more. Carrying death’s scythe to where tormented souls linger. But what awaits them in a world where
divine magick has returned?
Blurb
The Lady’s Horsemen are riding out once more. Carrying
death’s scythe to where tormented souls linger.
But what awaits them in a world where divine magick has
returned?
Pitch is recovered from the injuries he received in the
Forest of Dean, and Silas won’t soon forget the part he played in setting his guardian back on
his feet.
The ankou and the daemon have been reunited in a most
unexpected and intimate way, but barely have they caught their breath when a new threat
arises.
A tortured spirit is frightening both the living and the dead
along the roads of Devon.
But is this soul a monster that must be stopped, or another
pawn in the necromancer’s mysterious game?
With Azazel’s magick re-emerging after hundreds of years,
maleficium plagues the world once more. But who is wielding the forbidden arcane magick
of the angels?
Do they work alone?
And why are they so intent on harassing the Lady’s
Horsemen?
Silas has never felt stronger, or more determined to live up
to the Order’s high expectations. He’s faced the walking dead, outwitted the enchanted Hall,
and gained an ally in the skriker.
But he’s not sure he’s equipped to handle his growing
attraction to a troubled daemon.
And Silas fears that getting any closer to Pitch and his tragic
secrets may prove as dangerous as the monsters they are riding to face.
BOOK 5
Book Title: The
Fulbourn – Pitch & Sickle Book Five
Author: D K Girl
Publisher: Lucas Publishing
Length: 133Kwords/ 458
pages
Release Date: October 20,
2022
It is not a standalone story.
While it does not end on a cliffhanger, there are
some unresolved issues.
When the King of Daemonkind comes to call, be ready
for hell to follow.
Blurb
After Lucifer’s disturbing visit,
the quest to destroy the Blight takes on a desperate urgency.
Finding Lieutenant Edward
Charters is paramount.
But what role does a mortal man
play in Seraphiel’s dangerous game?
The angel has sent Pitch a
talisman from beyond the grave, a seemingly innocuous watch that may be the key to
ending the Watcher King’s dark legacy. But to learn its secret Pitch and Silas must find the
man intended to carry it.
As the search for the lieutenant
begins, the Horsemen find themselves gifted with something more precious than any angelic
token. An evening of unexpected freedom. A night that will deepen their intimacy and bring
long-stifled feelings to the fore.
But what price will they pay for
choosing breathless pleasure over rigid duty?
The Morrigan have not forgiven
the destruction at the greensward. They are prepared to do whatever it takes to rid
themselves of the Horsemen and heed the Watcher King’s ghostly call.
The Fulbourn is Pitch and Silas’s
greatest threat yet. A place that will drive them into the depths of their
most terrible fears and seek to tear them apart.
They are closer than ever before but will that fragile new bond be
enough to save them?
Or have the daemon prince and his ankou found the nemesis that will destroy them once
and for all?
Excerpt from ‘The Bandalore-Pitch & Sickle Book One’
A rather pretty gentleman, sharp featured, pale and fine,
stepped into the room with a flourish of raised hands. His tousled light brown hair was wild
about his shoulders, and his eyes so green it was as though emeralds had been pressed into
the sockets. ‘Let the amusements begin…or should I say…continue.’
His velvet coat, a red almost as bold as the woman’s lips,
was unbuttoned, revealing a black shirt with a silver brocade of Chinese dragons upon it. An
elaborate ruffling of silk tumbled from the collar and covered a good portion of his chest. His
choice of trousers was equally curious, a rather outdated fall-front style in black silk.
The baron groaned, but his smile was ever-present. ‘Good
god, man, we thought you two would never be done.’
‘Perfection takes time, does it not?’
‘Take your seat, you rascal, and stop your showmanship, at
least just for a moment.’
Silas scratched his right palm absently, attempting to stymie
the prickle. Like many things about himself he wasn’t certain of his age, his late twenties was
likely, much the same as the man who had just swept into the room.
Mr Astaroth tilted his head, pursing lips that held a near-
perfect Cupid’s bow. ‘Am I to stand aside so another showman can perform?’
‘Exactly,’ the baron declared.
As Mr Astaroth made his way to his seat with his
companion, he had a notable effect on those in attendance. The ladies all at once seemed
incapable of deciding how they should adjust their gowns upon their seats, and the men
were equally as fidgety. All of them were fixated on Mr Astaroth’s procession across the
room. The man had not spared Silas a glance yet, even when he was deriding him, and Silas
had no issue with that at all. He was not sure he’d enjoy the pierce of those green eyes upon
him. But he could not deny there was indeed something mesmerising about the lad, the
sway of his hips, the coiled tension in his body that gave the impression he might suddenly
leap unannounced in any direction.
Mr Astaroth stopped to take a glass of champagne from the
tray offered by a somewhat flustered young footman. The liquid wobbled in its crystal
confines, and the boy’s eyes darted so quickly between the floor and the man before him, it
was as though he’d lost control of his eyeballs.
‘Thank you, kind sir. What a wonderful job you do.’ Mr
Astaroth’s smile was discomfortingly suggestive, his whispered appreciation of the boy’s
offering far too intimate, and the serving boy nearly stumbled over his own feet to move
away.
Mr Astaroth was slender, not remarkable in height, and the
angles of his face were delicate to the point of being feminine, but he held a presence that
quite overwhelmed the room. Silas’s gaze moved down the length of the man’s body to his
feet. He wore heeled boots, which meant he was shorter than first impressions allowed. The
glean of polished leather distracted Silas from what became startlingly obvious a moment
later. He tensed and closed his eyes a second, as though that might change things. But alas it
was not to be.
The ground at Tobias Astaroth’s feet held no
shadow.
Whoever this man was, he was not, for all intents and
purposes, human. Silas took hold of the arms of the chair, filled with the sudden desire to
depart. No one had thought to instruct him on an encounter such as this.
‘Stop frightening the help and get your arse on a chair,’
declared the bespectacled man at Silas’s left. ‘We know how you hate to have attention
diverted from you, so do try and behave, Pitch old boy.’
Evidently the group knew the man well enough to have
endowed him with a nickname. Silas could only imagine its origins.
‘Oh Brenton,’ Victoria, Mr Astaroth’s companion, said. ‘As
far as I’m concerned, Tobias has been on his best behaviour all evening.’ She had taken her
seat and leaned her elbows upon the table, utterly at ease.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ Mr Astaroth said. ‘You are as sensible
as you are extremely talented in the art of, what were we calling it? Tarot reading.’ He tilted
his glass towards her before turning to Silas. The air quite vanished from Silas’s lungs
beneath the daggers of his emerald stare. ‘How very nice to make your acquaintance, Mr
Mercer. I do hope we are in for a wonderful show.’
About the Author
Danielle K Girl is an Aussie who lives in stunning Tasmania with
her three furkids, cats Luffy, Sweetie and Ren.
Her idea of heaven is a farm full of rescue animals, with a
vegie garden that sprouts peanut M&M’s and chocolate wheaten biscuits.
When she’s not keyboard-deep in mysterious, beguiling
worlds, she is binge watching K-Dramas, listening to K-Pop or hiking through the beautiful
Tasmanian wilderness.
I’m here to destroy this town. How did I end up in a fake relationship with its hero?
I’ve spent my life proving to my grandpa and dad that I’m
more than just the Lewis family mistake. So when Grandpa sends me to Devon Falls, VT to
take some ridiculous leaf festival to court, I head straight there and get to work.
But Dr. Jack Lancer keeps getting in my way.
He’s everywhere.
Helping me out with my migraines, making me dinner, insisting people be nice to me even
though I’m the enemy. Who is this guy? The next thing I know I’m pretending to be Jack’s
boyfriend to get him out of a bind. I swear he’s putting kindness pills in my food or
something.
Jack thinks he can fix me the same way he fixes everyone
else. But I’m not broken. This podunk town will be when I’m done with it, though. And Jack?
Well, he’s about to learn the meaning of the term “collateral damage.” Because I’ll do
anything to win this case and end this festival.
Even if it means losing something that feels an awful lot like
love.
Fauxmance in the Falls is an age-gap romance featuring a small town full of quirks, a grumpy lawyer and a
charming physician, a fake relationship gone wild, some inappropriate use of a doctor’s
office, and a healthy mix of humor and angst. It stars Benson Lewis, who first appeared in
the book Counterpoint.
Excerpt
Benson stands before us, looking as wrecked as I could ever
imagine seeing him. He’s barely standing upright, and there are dark circles surrounding his
sagging eyes. He’s wearing a wrinkled pair of jogging pants and a shirt that looks like he’s
sweated through it, and his facial expression screams of absolute misery. I simultaneously
feel extremely guilty for knocking on his door and extremely glad that I did. “Benson,” I say
softly. “Migraine?”
He nods, immediately wincing at the head motion. And that
tiny little movement is all the cue I need to start taking charge.
“Elijah, I need you to run to the drug store,” I tell him
quietly. I list off a series of items that Benson likely needs.
“Be right back,” Elijah whispers, though I never warned him
about being quiet. He’s far more astute than his grandparents give him credit for. He runs off
down the hall and I step into Benson’s space, examining him with my eyes. “How long?” I
ask.
“Since the Thai restaurant.”
Shit. Almost twenty-four hours, then. “Have you taken
anything?”
“Just aspirin.” He winces at the ray of light peeking around
the door from the hallway. “Don’t have anything else,” he mumbles. I’m going to make sure
we correct that the second he’s well enough for conversation. But right now, all I want to do
is make him feel better.
“Okay,” I tell him gently. “We’ll fix it, Benson. I’ve got you.
You’re not on your own anymore.”
He stares at me, squinting, and I notice his eyes are wet.
“I’m really glad you’re here,” he says hoarsely.
I startle slightly. I know Benson well enough by now to
know those probably aren’t words he says often.
I guide him gently into the apartment, which is a small
studio with a double bed in one corner and a combination kitchen/living room taking up
most of the space. The curtains are closed tightly. They’re mostly light-blocking, at least. I
surprise him, I think, when I guide him over to the sofa and help him lay down there. “I’m
going to get you some water and change your sheets,” I whisper. “Have you been able to
keep food down?”
He shakes his head slightly.
“Well, I sent Elijah for applesauce and electrolytes. We’ll
see if we can fix that.” I can feel his eyes track me as I make use of what his small space has
to offer. I find a glass of water and help him sit up long enough to take a few sips. When he
shakes his head at me, I don’t push for him to drink more. I find clean sheets and quickly
make his bed, then grab some sweatpants and a Burlington U Law shirt from his dresser.
“C’mon,” I urge him. “Let’s get you into some more comfortable clothes.”
He holds onto my shoulders as I help him step out of his
pants. I look away to give him as much privacy as possible, but Benson draws my attention
back to him when he says, “this isn’t really how I envisioned you getting in my pants for the
first time.”
The corners of his lips are turned up in a hint of a wry grin,
and my heart speeds up. Has he really had those thoughts too? Now is not the time for that
conversation, unfortunately. “Me either,” I tell him, keeping things light as I help him into the
fresh pants and shirt.
I change the sheets on the bed and get him settled into it
before I dampen a washcloth with cool water. Some migraine patients are sensitive to any
kind of touch when they have episodes like this, but Benson sighs with happiness when I lay
the cloth across his forehead.
I sit down gently on the side of his bed. “When Elijah gets
back we’ll try food and more water,” I tell him. “Get excited for that applesauce.”
Benson grimaces. “I’ll try it,” he promises. “I already feel
better than I did. Thank you, Jack.”
I gently take one of his hands, and when he doesn’t object,
I hold it while I rub my thumb against his palm. “Thank you for what?” I ask. I’m not sure
what I’m being thanked for. Changing someone’s sheets and getting them some water when
they’re ill are about the most basic things you can do for another human.
“No one’s ever really done this before. You know. For me,”
he mutters. “Not lately, anyway.”
“Do you get migraines often?” I ask him.
He sighs. “I used to get them a lot more when I was
younger. I thought they were going away. But lately they’ve been getting worse.”
“Who used to take care of you when you got them?” I
ask.
He shrugs into the sheets around him. “I think my nannies
did. Well, some of them anyway. Until they… couldn’t anymore.” Benson grimaces again,
and I decide this isn’t the best time to have this conversation.
“You’re going to be okay,” I tell him. It’s a universal line I’ve
used a million times in my career. Some patients believe it. Some don’t. From Benson’s
expression, I can’t tell where he stands.
“It was worse last night,” he replies. “In the middle of the
night. It was so bad. They’ve gotten worse lately, like I said. I was here, in this bed, and the
pain was so awful I started to wonder if I was going to live through it. And I kept thinking…
kept thinking that I didn’t want to die by myself in a studio apartment. Alone. All by myself.”
He closes his eyes against pain I can’t see, and suddenly I need to be holding more than just
his hand.
“You’re not alone,” I tell him. I lean over farther and graze
his cheek with the fingers of my other hand. It’s a test to see if my touch hurts, but all he
does is lean farther into it. And just like that, I know I’m doing the right thing. “You’re not
alone right now,” I repeat. “And you never have to be alone again. Not if you don’t want to
be. You have me now. Me and Elijah.”
Benson has settled his cheek deep into my hand at this
point. He’s almost nuzzling it. “Not forever,” he mumbles. “Just for now. Just for
pretend.”
About the Author
J.E. Birk was raised in
Vermont and is now adulting in Colorado with intermittent success. She is a long-time lover
of stories, and she writes and reads in worlds where imperfect characters find their happily
ever after. Snag free bonus content and stay up-to-date on J.E. Birk’s news and releases by
signing up for her newsletter.
Luca Moretti is grumpy—and he wouldn’t have it any other
way. Wrangling six—Italian—siblings and the family’s
restaurants would make anyone cranky. But when his mother requests that he save his
aunt’s struggling Italian deli in charming, picturesque Indigo Bay, he has no idea that he’s about to overdose on sweetness. Luca expected his aunt’s stubbornness—she’s a
Moretti, isn’t she?—and his cousin’s resistance to actual work, but the last thing he expected
is the absolute ball of sunshine known as Oliver Billings. Oliver loves Indigo Bay. Loves owning his small
artisan bakery, Sweetie Pie’s. Helps nice old ladies cross the street. Even volunteers for the
local Sweethearts Festival. Sweet isn’t really Luca’s style, or so he thinks. But
when he discovers Oliver can be a little spicy too, his prickly exterior begins to crumble like a
well-baked crust. If Luca isn’t careful, he’s going to develop a taste for
sweets—and a particular baker’s pie. And one or two servings will never be
enough.
Excerpt
“Ah, they sent the fixer out.” Oliver sounded amused
again. “I can see it. You’re definitely more of a fixer than a baker.”
Luca shrugged. “I run my family’s four restaurants.
They do not typically need fixing.” Don’t be arrogant, don’t be arrogant. “But
Nonna’s Deli here, it is . . .an investment of ours. Not directly under my control. So I’m not
here to order changes but to . . .suggest them. Nicely.”
“Which is how they’ve managed to underperform all
these years,” Oliver said with another of those smirks. They shouldn’t have been so
frustratingly attractive. But Luca felt them deep down, stirring him up in a way he hadn’t
expected.
Oliver was definitely a very attractive package, one
he’d love to unwrap.
Would he be as sweet as promised? Or a little salty
too? Maybe even a bit spicy?
“You could say that,” Luca said. “Part of the proposed
changes are aligning the menu more directly with our other restaurants. And that includes
fresh bread, daily. Nonna’s here doesn’t have the staff, the resources, or the equipment to
do this, but you do.”
“I do,” Oliver conceded. “My schedule’s already pretty
packed, but I suppose I could fit you in. French bread? Sourdough bread? Focaccia? Rolls?
Loaves? How many dozen per day?”
Luca liked every part of Oliver he’d seen so far. He
was charming and sweet and undeniably adorable. Then there was how goddamned sexy he
was when he got down to business.
“I’m not sure yet,” Luca said. “In fact, they may not
need any at all. Giana and Enzo have my proposed changes, but they are not required to
accept all of them—or any of them, actually.”
“You must hate that, not being able to actually
impose your control over them.” Oliver said it casually, like a true control-freak business
owner, like he understood.
How did Oliver know how much he hated it? Was it
that obvious? Was it written all over his face that he’d love nothing more than to march
down the street and tell Giana and Enzo exactly what to do?
“Yes,” Luca admitted.
“Nonna’s isn’t just an Italian affectation, is it? Was
there actually a Nonna?” Oliver asked.
“My grandmother.”
“Ah, well, there you go.” Oliver leaned back, grinning.
Luca wanted to chase him, but he stayed on his side of the table, with what he thought was
pretty admirable restraint.
“So why does Enzo dislike you so much?” Luca
asked.
“That’s a long story. And I’ve got to tend to these
rolls. If they overproof . . .” Oliver shrugged. “I’m a perfectionist, what can I
say?”
“If he supposedly turns against you every chance he
gets, what’s he going to say,” Luca said, deploying the most persuasive smile in his arsenal,
“when he finds out I want to hire you to bake our bread? I need the insider info. Need to be
able to convince him it’s a good idea.”
“It’s not going to help you, and you’re not
going to like it,” Oliver said. “Though, you sorta look like there’s plenty of things you don’t
like.”
But I like you. “You’re not wrong.” It was hard to admit it, but there it was. He was particular, okay?
Particular and more than a little arrogant about his particularity.
Maybe it was good Oliver knew that now, even if all
they ever had was a date and a night—though even that was still up in the air.
“We dated,” Oliver said. His watch beeped, and he
stood, just as he’d left Luca speechless for another long moment. “Well,” he amended, with
a cute little shrug. “It was one date. But still. He wanted to continue. I did not. And that’s the
story.”
“That wasn’t a very long story,” Luca managed, and
was he trailing after Oliver in his own bakery like a lost puppy looking for his owner? Yes, he
was, a little.
About the Author
A lifelong Pacific Northwester, Beth Bolden has just recently moved to North Carolina with
her supportive husband. Beth still believes in Keeping Portland Weird, and intends to be just
as weird in Raleigh.
Beth has been writing practically since she learned the alphabet. Unfortunately, her first
foray into novel writing, titled Big Bear with Sparkly Earrings, wasn’t a bestseller, but hope
springs eternal. She has published over forty novels and novellas.
The mean streets of
Manchester are the scene for a blood thirsty gang war. But with battle lines drawn, three
heroes find themselves falling in love at the worst possible time.
The war for supremacy has
begun.
BOOK 2 – NEW RELEASE
Book Title: Everything
Changes
Author: Kristian
Parker
Release Date: April 11,
2023
Genre: Contemporary M/M Romance
Trope: Close proximity
Themes: Gangster, action
Heat Rating: 4 flames
Length: 50 578
words
It is not a standalone book,
but does not end on a cliffhanger
Shaun Moseley is in a trap and it’s all his brother, Liam’ s
fault.
Living a normal life running a B&B in Blackpool, he
finds himself right in the middle of a gang turf war in Manchester. Shaun is an alien in this
horrifying new world of drugs, guns and violence.
Shaun rebels against everyone, isolating himself in the
process. But a terrifying experience opens his eyes to gang member Enzo Ponti. Shaun may
be trapped for the time being, but that doesn’t mean he can’t have a little fun along the way,
right?
He dismissed Enzo as just another hired killer but when he
scratches the surface, he finds much more there.
But evil gangster, Jonny Wellingham, wants revenge on the
gang and has set his sights on Shaun. Can he live long enough to find just how deep Enzo’ s
waters are?
Excerpt from Everything Changes
They stood side by side, watching some birds flocking over the
reservoir.
“When I was in a yoga retreat in Kathmandu, they had all sorts
of gay-coloured birds,” Shaun said. “All we have are shitty brown things.”
He kicked a stone.
“I’ve seen you doing your yoga,” Enzo said. “Did you learn it on
your travels? You should come and do some weights with me and Giovanni. It would be far
more beneficial than getting yourself into silly poses.”
“Have you been perving over me then?”
Enzo reddened. “It’s not a big house. You can’t help it.”
Shaun regretted his big mouth. Enzo had done something kind
for him and he should make an effort not to shoot him down every time he tried to speak.
They wandered a little farther down the path.
“It’s weird to think that my whole childhood was spent in that
place,” Shaun said, nodding to Manchester in the distance. “Where did you grow up?”
“I grew up in Rome. Well, a little village about an hour out of
the city. I was very lucky in a lot of ways, but…”
Shaun glanced at him. He found him difficult to read, but there
was definite pain there.
“But what?”
“Being attracted to men was not part of that world. Not until
Uncle Z came. He changed everyone’s view.”
Shaun whirled around. “You’re gay?” he asked in
astonishment.
Enzo raised an eyebrow. “Is it so surprising? Marco. Uncle
Z.”
“Bloody hell,” Shaun said. “My gaydar is way out of sync.”
“Perhaps if you’d spoken to me once in a while, you’d have had
a better chance of figuring me out,” Enzo said.
His words weren’t spiteful but simply stating a fact. A fact
Shaun couldn’t even begin to deny. Embarrassment burnt over his skin. He had been
behaving obstructively since coming to the farm. Now he could see himself through Enzo’s
eyes and he didn’t like it. “Have I been such a bitch?” he ventured.
Enzo glanced over at him and winked. Shaun had noticed that
Enzo was handsome—it was impossible not to. But he hadn’t taken the time to see his dark
brown eyes or the way they crinkled at the sides when he smiled. Whether it was the fact
he’d just saved his life or something deeper, Shaun imagined staring into those eyes and
losing himself.
“We should get back,” he said. “I need to finish tonight’s
dinner. I know my place and I don’t fancy being shouted at by Marco for not doing it.”
“And there he goes,” Enzo muttered. “Back into his shell. You
would find this whole experience a damned sight easier if you were a little nicer to those
around you. We are not all villains, you know.”
Once again, a flash of rage blew through Shaun’s system. He
didn’t want to be schooled in how to be a gangster. Not by anyone, no matter how deep
their eyes were.
“Thank you for the advice on how to survive a fucking gang
war that I want nothing to do with,” he snapped. “I was terrified today, Enzo. Do you
understand what that means? I can’t just toe the line and chuckle while my brother or any of
you go out there time and again. If I get to know you, like you, it just adds to my fears. I can’t
do it. I won’t.”
He was babbling now, but his mouth couldn’t seem to stop. To
his amazement, Enzo came over and wrapped his arms around him. Shaun fitted perfectly,
his head nestling in the crook of Enzo’s neck.
Enzo’s strong arms instantly calmed him and the shivers he had
been battling since he got in the car simply disappeared.
“I get terrified too,” Enzo said softly.
“How do you stand it?”
“I have no idea. You’re not the only one in the whirlpool, I
suppose.”
Shaun looked up just as Enzo stared down at him. Their lips
were almost touching, but then reality hit Shaun like a sledgehammer. Having an affair with
a gangster had put his brother in the hospital. He had no intention of spinning that particular
bottle.
He broke away, trying to ignore the hurt on Enzo’s face.
“They’ll be missing us now,” he said, smoothing down his jacket.
START THE SERIES WITH BOOK 1
Book Title: Fool’s
Gold
Author: Kristian
Parker
Publisher: Pride
Publishing
Cover Artist: Erin Dameron-
Hill
Release Date: March 14,
2023
Genre Contemporary M/M Romance
Tropes: Forbidden love, opposites attract
Themes: Gangster, action
Heat Rating: 4 flames
Length: 52 069 words/233
pages
It is not a standalone book,
but does not end on a cliffhanger
Liam Moseley has been living a lie ever since he joined
Manchester’s notorious crime boss Jonny Wellingham ten years ago. Liam is gay, and that
could get him killed in the deadly world he has fallen into.
When he meets handsome Italian Marco Ponti, Liam’s
whole world is turned on its head. Marco is in town looking for business opportunities for
his uncle in Rome, and makes Liam see his life in a brand-new light.
But all is not as it seems, especially when Marco shows
Liam the past isn’t always as it appears and the future can change in the blink of an eye. In a
dangerous world where each job could be Liam’s last, he finds himself fighting for love as
well as survival.
Liam will have to put everything he holds dear on the line
to make his dreams come true.
Excerpt from Fool’s Gold
“So you’re Manchester born and bred?” Marco
asked.
“Can’t you tell by the accent?” Liam replied.
Marco beamed. “I love the Manc accent. It’s
so…expressive.”
“That’s the first time I’ve heard it called that before,” Liam
said. “I’d rather have an Italian one.”
“You find it sexy?”
Marco’s eyes dared him to answer honestly. Something
about this guy gave Liam confidence. No man had ever had this effect on him. “Yeah, I do,”
he replied before glancing down.
“Why do you do that?” Marco asked, leaning forward, his
elbows on the table.
“Do what?” he asked.
“Break eye contact every time you say something. Are you
ashamed?”
Liam shifted uncomfortably. “No, it’s not that.”
“Tell me what it is, then?” Marco asked, his voice soothing
and sincere.
“I guess I don’t think I have anything to say worth listening
to,” he replied, eventually.
To his astonishment, Marco’s foot connected with his leg.
The pressure told him it was absolutely on purpose.
“I respectfully disagree, Liam. I think I’d listen to you.
Whatever you had to say.”
He had that burning sensation on his neck again. It had
made him so paranoid at school.
“Sorry, I have made you blush,” Marco continued.
“Don’t worry about it. I always bloody blush. They called
me Po at school because of it.”
Marco frowned. “What?”
“The red Teletubby?” Liam expected him to burst into that
laughter again. Most people did when he confided this, but instead, Marco just shook his
head.
“Kids can be so cruel. But who cares? They are in your
past.”
“Yeah, they’re probably sweeping up shit in the hospital
now. Serves them right.”
This time Marco did seem amused. “Said with true passion.
I like it. So, what do you do, Liam?”
Here it came. The inevitable question. He could hardly say
he was a lackey for one of the biggest gangsters in the northwest of England, so he reverted
to his stock answer. “Oh, you know, bit of this, bit of that. How about you?”
“As I said, my uncle works in shipping. I’m over here seeing
if there is any potential to expand to Manchester.”
Liam nodded. “The city is booming. You could do a lot
worse.”
“That’s what I thought. I like what I see more and
more.”
The look which followed that statement practically oozed
with intent. This time, Liam forced himself to meet Marco’s gaze. “I’ve never been to Italy,
but maybe I should,” he replied. “Rome seems pretty good from where I’m sitting.”
“Ah, you definitely should,” Marco said, leaning back. “It is
beautiful. I’ve been the length and breadth of it with my job. I worked in Venice recently. Bellissima.”
Liam had seen pictures of the water world on television.
“Better than the canals in Manchester. They’re just full of shopping trolleys and used
condoms.”
Marco laughed again. It was so loud and carefree that Liam
had to stop himself from looking around to see if anyone noticed. But he forced himself to
relax and ended up giggling along with him. It had been so long since he’d done something
like this.
“This is better,” Marco said.
“What is?”
“You are relaxing. You seemed very tense earlier,” Marco
said. “I thought perhaps you’d changed your mind about me.”
“Oh, nothing like that,” Liam said hurriedly. “It’s just that
I’m not out, you see. I don’t normally do this.”
Marco’s stunning eyes widened. “Who isn’t out these
days?”
Shaking his head, Liam took a swig of his drink. “Me,” he
said, placing the drink down. “In my line of work, it isn’t the done thing.”
A group of lads banged through the door. Liam frantically
scanned each face but didn’t recognise any of them.
“Wow. I can’t imagine being in the closet. At my eighteenth
birthday party, I came out. I figured if I had to enter adulthood, people should know what
they were dealing with. Although I like to make a statement now and then. It keeps them on
their toes.”
The lads were being quite rowdy. Even the barman
appeared nervous.
“You’re very brave,” Liam said.
“Not really. My uncle is gay too, so it was a well-beaten
path. No one in our family cares as long as you’re healthy and happy.”
“Sounds perfect.”
Marco chuckled, but Liam couldn’t relax. He watched the
group of lads out of the corner of his eye. He could spot trouble a mile off, and these lads
were desperate for it.
“We’re a long way from perfect, believe me,” Marco said.
“But we get by.”
Liam drained his glass. “You want another?”
Marco shook his head. “There are a lot of things I’d like
from you, Liam…but another drink is not one of them.”
The change in tempo took Liam by surprise. Heat crept over
his face and he didn’t know what to say in return. He had never been any good at the whole
game-playing thing. “Just nipping to the loo,” he managed before bolting for the
door.
BOOK 3 – COMING SOON – AVAILABLE FOR PRE-
ORDER
Book Title: Don’t Look
Back In Anger
Author: Kristian
Parker
Release Date: May 30,
2023
Genre: Contemporary M/M Romance
Trope: Second chance love
Themes: Gangster, action
Length: 50 123
words
Heat Rating: 4 flames
It is not a standalone book,
but does not end on a cliffhanger.
Revenge is best served cold, yet old embers can burn hot.
Lorenzo de Luca has come back to Manchester with revenge on his mind.
Supposedly killed by evil gangster Jonny Wellingham’s hitmen fifteen years ago, Lorenzo has
waited a long time for this. He has to stay focused. And he does…until a past lover comes
back into his life.
But old embers can spark a flame and the couple pick up where they left off—but the war
has only just begun, and everyone is fair game…and Lorenzo’s distraction gives Jonny the
opportunity he needs to strike a deadly blow.
Torn between his burning need for vengeance and the scorching heat of love, which will
Lorenzo sacrifice?
Reader advisory: This book contains scenes of violence, murder, organised crime, sex
work, and drugs trafficking. There are also instances of homophobia.
About the Author
I have written for as long as I
could write. In fact, before, when I would dictate to my auntie. I love to read, and I love to
create worlds and characters.
I live in the English
countryside. When I’m not writing, I like to get out there and think through the next scenario
I’m going to throw my characters into.
Inspiration can be found
anywhere, on a train, in a restaurant or in an office. I am always in search of the next
character to find love in one of my stories. In a world of apps and online dating, it is
important to remember love can be found when you least expect it.
Trapped between a homicidal brother and a homophobic podcaster eager to reveal her lesbian romance novels, a seventy-year-old grandmother seeks help in Clear, Alaska.
Blurb
Editor’s Pick Booklife Reviews: A fast-paced yet thoughtful romance of coming out and finding love in later life in Alaska
5 Star Clarion Reviews: A riveting novel . . . about love, courage, and solidarity
Trapped between a homicidal brother and a homophobic podcaster eager to reveal her lesbian romance novels, a seventy-year-old grandmother seeks help in Clear, Alaska. Suffocating in a loveless marriage and lonely existence, Taylor MacKenzie lives only through her writing, using the pen name Brooke Skipstone, her best friend in college and lover before her death in 1974. Afraid of being murdered before anyone in her family or community knows her life story, Taylor writes an autobiography about her time with Brooke and shares it with those closest to her, hoping for understanding and acceptance. Accused of promoting the queering and debasement of America by a local podcaster, Taylor embroils the conservative community in controversy but fights back with the help of a new, surprising friend. Can she endure the attacks from haters and gaslighters? Can she champion the queering she represents? And will she survive?
Excerpt
NO ONE in the world is actually named Brooke Skipstone.
Not for almost fifty years.
Taylor Baird MacKenzie, a long-term substitute teacher in Clear, Alaska, knew her secret had already begun to unravel. Brooke wrote novels about lesbian liberation, fierce coming-of-age stories full of high family drama. Her readers probably pictured an author in her thirties with tattoos and a gender-fluid appearance.
Certainly not a seventy-year-old grandmother with long, thick hair—still more brown than gray—wearing lined leggings and an oversized hoodie that covered her butt. And unhappily married to the same man for over forty years.
Much too old and too obviously straight to be writing such novels.
Soon, everyone would know the truth—she was the author Brooke Skipstone. How big would the shockwave be?
Taylor had long feared the repercussions and kept her pen name secret. What would her kids say? And her grandkids, who hardly knew her because she lived so far from them. And saw them even less than usual because of Covid. At times the thought of discovery had seared her guts, but the liberation of writing what she wanted, revealing the characters living in her mind and the love and pain in her heart, had become her main reason for existence.
While at her keyboard, Taylor lost herself in her secret world—vibrant, passionate, full of laughter and turmoil and utter joy. Not like her real world of silence and numbing isolation, where she couldn’t talk about what mattered most to her.
Keeping the source of her greatest happiness a secret had suffocated her life.
Taylor stood at her classroom door before her last class of the day, while students thumbed phones and talked as they sat at a picnic table in the center of the Commons area. The same kind of table she and Brooke sat at in the spring of 1973.
Soon after Taylor’s college roommate and fellow theatre major, Brooke Tobolovsky turned twenty-one, Brooke changed her last name. Though she didn’t have the internet to check, she said she had never heard of anyone named Skipstone, so claimed it for herself. She thought it sounded cool. Much better for the stage and screen. Besides, she’d always hated the sound of Tobolovsky.
Regardless of her name, no one could ever forget her. Long, thick, cinnamon-colored hair; high forehead; deep-set blue eyes; and the biggest smile Taylor had ever seen. She could play Lady Macbeth just as easily as Juliet and belt out a song like a combination of Cher and Stevie Nicks. She was the natural lead, while Taylor was the utility player—competent actress, writer, composer, and organizational queen.
Once all the legal papers were complete, they celebrated with a pitcher of beer at The Hangout a few blocks from Southern Methodist University in Dallas, Texas. They sat at a picnic table under canvas stretched between oak trees, blocking the March sun. Brooke carved her new name on the bench as they pushed flip-flops through pea gravel and peanut shells.
“Does this mean I can’t call you Tobo anymore?” Taylor laughed and snorted beer.
Brooke scoffed with a quick flash of her eyes, “I’ve put a curse on that name, as you can see. Say it at your peril.” She cocked an eyebrow.
Taylor coughed this time, spewing beer on her shirt.
“I always knew you couldn’t hold your liquor.” Brooke wiped Taylor’s chin with a napkin.
“That word will never cross my lips again.”
“Which word?” Brooke teased. Her tongue peeked out the side of her mouth as she dabbed the snot from Taylor’s upper lip. “Hmm?”
Flashing a smile, Taylor said, “From now on, you’ll be BS to me. Nothing but BS.”
Brooke narrowed her eyes and tightened her mouth. “You’d better be referring to Brooke Skipstone.”
Taylor raised her hands and cocked her head in a perfect expression of amused innocence. “Certainly.” She tried to swallow the guffaw rising from her gut. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
They stared at each other for three seconds, each holding her pose until Brooke broke into a smile. “That’s BS and you know it.”
Taylor’s guffaw erupted, and in their laughter-filled haze, they both knocked their glasses to the ground. No matter. They drank from the pitcher and later started a burping contest. Taylor conceded when Brooke burped the chorus of “I Am Woman,” earning a standing ovation from the crowd of hippie students and locals that had gathered around them. The girls walked home, Taylor’s arm around her friend’s neck; Brooke’s around the other’s waist.
They were known as B&T because they were inseparable. They’d shared the ground floor of a small rental house since sophomore year but spent most of their time acting, hanging lights, building sets, and running shows at the Owens Art Center. If one of them wasn’t around the other, people would invariably ask, “Where’s ___?” with a little frown and gasp.
Taylor wrote and directed plays and musicals mainly for teens, while Brooke snagged major acting roles every year. Taylor was involved in every one of Brooke’s shows, while Brooke sang and acted in each of Taylor’s studio productions.
They were two promising women, determined to make their own way in the world and support each other’s careers in theatre—Brooke as an actress at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland and Taylor as a drama teacher at a private school in a nearby city. After breaking up with their casual boyfriends and graduating in 1974, they headed west in a very used VW Camper Bus adorned with painted flowers to cover the rust.
They loved each other completely as friends and had only become lovers two days before Brooke’s death.
About the Author
Brooke Skipstone is a multi-award-winning author who lives in Alaska where she watches the mountains change colors with the seasons from her balcony. Where she feels the constant rush toward winter as the sunlight wanes for six months of the year, seven minutes each day, bringing crushing cold that lingers even as the sun climbs again. Where the burst of life during summer is urgent under twenty-four-hour daylight, lush and decadent. Where fish swim hundreds of miles up rivers past bear claws and nets and wheels and lines of rubber-clad combat fishers, arriving humped and ragged, dying as they spawn. Where danger from the land and its animals exhilarates the senses, forcing her to appreciate the difference between life and death. Where the edge between is sometimes too alluring.
The Queering is her fifth novel. Visit her website at for information about her first four novels—The Moonstone Girls, Crystal’s House of Queers, Some Laneys Died, and Someone To Kiss My Scars.
All Wade Lewis wants during rookie preseason camp is to
play great football and to make it to the final fifty-three man roster. He absolutely does not want Tristan
Nicholson.
His complete and total opposite. His teammate. His competition. And his roommate. During the day, Tristan unexpectedly proves to be
helpful on and off the field, but at night, when the lights go out, Tristan also becomes the
only man he can’t resist.
First, he’s a friend, then astonishingly, he becomes a
lover. And then he becomes the last thing Wade ever
expected: everything.
This novella was previously published, and some light
editing has been done, but no new content has been added.
Excerpt
Tristan had nearly found Beau and asked if he could
switch rooms, but the problem with that was that he likedsharing a room with Wade.
He was a good roommate, conscientious and kind, and apart from this inconvenient
attraction stuff, he was becoming a good friend.
And he’d already been around the NFL long enough to
know that friends didn’t exactly grow on trees.
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, then, that as
soon as the light went out, after this long-ass day, when both of them should have been
exhausted and immediately falling asleep, Tristan couldn’t help himself and instead of being
safe and smart and careful, like he had been all day, like he’d used all that safety up, he
asked the question himself.
“You ever kiss a guy before, Wade?”
Wade was quiet for such a long time that Tristan
wondered if maybe he had actually fallen asleep.
He found himself holding his breath, barely able to
breathe, his lungs clogging, as he waited for Wade to answer. Listening, way too intently, for
even the minutest change in Wade’s own breathing.
Why did he even need to know?
Why did it matter so much that the answer be
no?
Finally, Wade let out a deep exhale, like he’d been
holding his own breath too. Like he’d made a decision.
“No,” he said. “No, I haven’t.”
Tristan dug his fingertips into his bedding. It was no
less dangerous to kiss Wade in this dark, private room than to do it in the middle of the day,
in the middle of the Piranhas weight room, but it was easier to justify because if they did it
here and now, nobody would ever know.
But you’d know,
Tristan reminded himself. And Wade will know.
It was those two things that kept Tristan in his own
bed, instead of joining Wade in his—and showing him just how great kissing a guy could
be.
“Is . . . is that what that was earlier? You were . . .”
Wade hesitated for so long that Tristan, hanging on every single word, every single syllable
echoing through the darkness, nearly got up and went to his side and demanded to know
what it was he was supposedly doing. Finally, though, Wade finished his sentence. “Testing
me?”
It made no sense. Why would Tristan be testing him?
He already knew Wade was bisexual. Wade had told him himself. Tristan might have tested
Wade if he hadn’t been sure. If he hadn’t been entirely sure how his flirtation would be
received.
But he definitely hadn’t been testing Wade
earlier.
He’d been irresistibly drawn to the man.
It felt unfair to pay Wade’s honesty back with a lie, no
matter how dangerous the truth was.
So Tristan told him the truth.
“I wasn’t testing you. I was . . . if you have to know, I
was . . . I find you attractive, Wade, and I wanted to kiss you. As stupid as that was. I
shouldn’t have been thinking about it. You’re not out, and there were other guys around,
and on top of that . . . it’s a huge, massive distraction that could get us both released. You
know, teams don’t really like their players hooking up.”
Don’t really was
an understatement.
It was technically allowed because it couldn’t be not allowed but it certainly wasn’t encouraged. All the Piranhas needed was a really
good reason to cut Tristan, and this would be it.
“You wanted to kiss me?” Wade’s voice was full of
wonder.
“I guess you missed the rest of that,” Tristan teased.
“You know, the part where it was—it is—a bad idea.”
“Sorry.” Wade actually sounded apologetic. “I got
stuck on that one bit. I just never thought . . . you and me. You’re so . . .”
It was playing with fire to ask.
Tristan knew it.
He asked anyway.
“I’m so what, Wade?”
“You’re so hot and confident and sure of yourself.
You’re a beacon of hope to so many closeted guys, guys who think that you can’t be gay and
play football. And then there’s me . . . not really ashamed but not open either, and not
experienced . . .”
“None of that matters,” Tristan interrupted him,
because he couldn’t listen to another moment of Wade putting himself down. “I can’t tell
you how much none of that matters.”
“It doesn’t?”
“Wade, you’re fucking gorgeous and you’re sweet,
and you’ve got this smile that lights up . . . well, it lights up everything around you. Including
me, okay?”
Wade was silent for a long time again, like he was
digesting what Tristan had just admitted to.
Like he was weighing the danger of it, the inherent
risk of it, with the reward.
But how could he, Tristan thought, dying over in his
own bed, when he didn’t know what he was really missing? He’d never kissed a guy before.
He didn’t know.
“Why,” Wade said, his voice rough, “are you still over
there, then?”
About the Author
A lifelong Pacific Northwester, Beth Bolden has just recently moved to North Carolina with
her supportive husband. Beth still believes in Keeping Portland Weird, and intends to be just
as weird in Raleigh.
Beth has been writing practically since she learned the alphabet. Unfortunately, her first
foray into novel writing, titled Big Bear with Sparkly Earrings, wasn’t a bestseller, but hope
springs eternal. She’s published twenty-three novels and seven novellas.
